Do Caged Birds Ever Sing?
by atomicfirefly
Summary: Emotions between John and Sherlock must be confronted, and in doing so, their fragile relationship will be harmed.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock slammed the door to 221 B. Baker Street shut.

"IGNORANCE! SUCH IGNORANCE!" He shouted with more anger than usual.

John got up from his typing position and sighed, knowing it was going to be another long night of convincing Sherlock not to brutally murder everyone at Scotland Yard.

"Sherlock...you need to calm down." replied John with an exaggerated pause.

"I...I can't. Why must I be granted this incredible brain? Why can't I be normal? Like you?"

John paused. For a long time, he had tried not to get offended with the multiple insults Sherlock had unknowingly hurt him with, but today, both flatmates were angry. Sherlock, oh precious Sherlock! Intelligence was just too much to handle! He doesn't care, he never cares!

The taller companion paced the spacious flat, murmuring some shit John didn't really care to hear. He could move out. It was always an option, and Sarah had been telling him for some time Sherlock was interfering with the already fragile relationship. He always retorted back, saying Sherlock needed him, he needed a strong backbone, but now Sarah was starting to make more sense.

Sherlock, slowing his pace, was thinking of John. It was quite easy to tell John wanted to leave. Not only had his attitude towards Sherlock's antics become progressively less patient, but everyone always left Sherlock in the end. No point in delaying the heartache to follow. Sherlock never thought of himself an emotional man, but when people left, it hurt. It was the only normality Sherlock thought he owned.

Sherlock could deal with others leaving. It would come to pass. However, the idea of John leaving for good was too much for him to bear. Sherlock felt he was never interested in anyone romantically, because he was mistaken in believing romantic interest was always sexual desire, for which he felt none. In reality, Sherlock was very much in love with John. His golden hair, sparkling blue eyes, profile as delicate as a flower, it was enough to make Sherlock's heart accelerate. He loved how short the doctor was compared to him, and how adoring the doctor was of his marvalous abilities. A life without his blogger was a life he did not wish to live. His eyes started to water, and he turned away quickly, to not get caught harboring feelings.

John, having some difficulty imagining a life without his arrogant flatmate, was confused. Sherlock was his best mate! Why were these sudden feelings taking effect? John had dated enough to know when lust was going to bloom or just be a one time thing. This felt...unusual. The last time he had this type of lust was with his first girlfriend, with whom he fell in love. He looked at the consulting detective, who also looked confused. He had to admit Sherlock was an attractive man. He had the palest skin, contrasted with the jet black hair, and eyes holding all stars in the universe. Although the detective was a good six inches taller than him, John still could appreciate his looks.

After about a good fifteen minutes of day dreaming, the flatmates shook themselves out of their daze, to find they were staring at each other, in a slightly romantic fashion never expressed before.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Oh! Erm...John...yes, well I suppose I should-"_

_"Yes, me too. Let's...let's not discuss that again."_

_"Right."_

Waking from his sudden flash back, Sherlock jumped from his sunken chair, and started to pace with the speed of a coke addict.

"Why! Why do my emotions betray me when I'm at my fines?" Sherlock languished, violently throwing an old, sodden birdcage. "Is that even mine..."

"Emotions? Now, that's a new one."

Already hyper from his missed dose of Adderall, Sherlock squeaked.

"John, damn you. What do you want? And why are you in my room? You never ask to come in."

John stepped forward slightly, attempting to regain his military stance. "Well, I need some...guidance."

"Advice? My experience on your matters do not apply...oh, ask anyway."

Watson balked, internally slapping himself for getting this far without knowing how to bring up the question. Okay, deep breath. You can do this... wait, no, no you can't! Abort mission!

"It's, uh, it's Sarah. You haven't told me if you like her or not. Remember, she was the one we almost killed about six months ago..."

"She is most definitely not the original question. Your sudden interest in the left side of the room gives that away. I have no time for you to act like a schoolgirl. Tell me your real question, or leave, as I must figure out why I suddenly own a birdcage."

John laughed, and with an evanescent burst of confidence, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and said, "See, this is why I can't move out! Sarah can't take the place of you, even she thinks so."

An awkward silence permeated the room, faltering the smile on John's face and turning the wheels in Sherlock's suddenly keen hormonal preceptors.

"John...what was your question?"

"I-I can't say. You won't understand. Go figure out your birdcage dilemma. I'm going out."

Blushing and stumbling, the clumsy soldier tripped out of the cluttered mess, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock could hear whatever was left of his flatmates' dignity vaporize hearing John yell at a honking cab to, "get the hell out of his way." He felt sad at John's leave, why was he sad? The explanation already had made its appearance, but he was refusing to accept it. The signs pointed straight towards the obvious conclusion. Picturing John made his stomach lighter, and his heart pound.

No, stop it. You are married to your work.

Thoughts racing the speed of a jet engine, Sherlock entered his mind palace, executing any remnant observations about John. In the midst of his eccentric battle with hypothesis on the birdcage, the blood in his brain shot out towards his heart, destroying the mind palace and leaving him gasping for air. Everything was light, so very light, and even though he could no longer think clearly, Sherlock concluded he was severely dehydrated.

Close to fainting, he collapsed on the abused chair harboring a stack of newspapers torn and highlighted for clues. He needed a doctor. John...

The name now triggered the accumulated emotions to rush back, seeping into the darkest regions of his heart, his brain, his soul. They had come into existence merely last week, but look at the multitude of effects already in place! He unlocked their prison cells in anguish, and unable to suppress a wheezing gasp, he lurched forward, grossly sobbing, but simultaneously laughing in hysteria. Tears blurred his eyes, and he folded himself in half, shaking with frustration. The emotions from John and the ancient sedated hormones from childhood blended, causing excruciating pain from beatings, hurt from harsh comments, happiness collected from nice, fleeting moments, and the incredible, indescribable loneliness.

An hour passed, and then two. Exhausted and somehow, lighter, Sherlock collected himself and sat upwards, knocking over the few remaining articles flopped over the cushions. There he sat in silence, contemplating his new human experience. Controlling his breathing, he found it was perfectly in sync with a beeping, coming from the battered birdcage. With a sudden realization, he flung himself onto the ground, peering into the enclosure. Inside, a small, stuffed golden bird was glued to the perch, gazing up at Sherlock with cold eyes. A small flashing red button was visible through the open beak, and the beeping grew more anxious and desperate. Scrambling to stand, Sherlock found with dread the emotional trauma he had endured emptied his body of any remaining moisture, making his head so light he could not stand, and gravity was slowly forcing him back to the ground. In a last ditch effort, he attempted calling for Ms. Hudson, failing miserably with his hackneyed vocal cords.

Sherlock looked to the bird. It was expanding. He slowly laid on his back, only feeling regret, and slurred out four words.

"I need a doctor."

The bomb exploded from the caged animal, flames erupting wildly in the colors of a phoenix.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Wha...where..."_

"Sherlock. Sherlock, it's John, don't you dare fall back asleep. Open your eyes."

Sherlock obeyed the soldier's command and slowly managed to pry open his eyes, squeezed shut from the huge explosion. John was at his bedside, gripping Sherlock's hands to the point of losing circulation. Sherlock looked at his face, and completely broke. John was shot white, with bloodshot eyes, strained from tears, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it was sure to break.

"John...how am I alive?"

"Well, the bomb went off, but the flames didn't hit you..." John got lost in thought for a few moments before snapping back and finishing, "...the chair got blown over, and landed on you, so you only suffered major bruising and lung exhaustion..."

"Fuck. No. Keep it together, John. No emotions..." John demanded his emotions cooperate, but his eyes rimmed with tears, and he couldn't hold. He started sobbing, and he stood quickly to leave. Sherlock couldn't see him like this, ever.

However, Sherlock wouldn't have it. He detached all of the various machines hooked up to him, and got out of the old hospital bed, and with difficulty grabbed onto Watson, turning the smaller man around and pulled him to his chest. John balked, and hesitantly wrapped his built arms around Sherlock's torso. The Detective buried his head into John's shoulder, nose touching neck. He, too, let out a profuse sob, surprising John once again. For five minutes the flatmates were wrapped in each others embrace, and when John let go, so did Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Promise me the next time you find a birdcage, you won't go throwing it around?"

Sherlock laughed, and said, "My dear Watson, my hatred for the bloody things have only increased. There is no chance any birdcage will reside in MY presence again."

John laughed with him, although a tint of sadness still came through, and led Sherlock back to the bed.

Later that evening, Sherlock woke up. Feeling groggy, he panicked at the thought of being in this disgusting dark hospital by himself, but was relieved to see John was passed out on the excuse of a chair placed in the room. Sherlock could not help but to smile at the sight of Watson still in military seating position, yet still managing to have an adorable expression plastered on his face. No! No, not adorable. Just...dammit. Letting out a sigh, Sherlock still found it hard to accept his attraction to the doctor, especially since he had always identified with asexuality.

"John...how do you manage to look so good after a bloody explosion went off..." Sherlock muttered, shocked to see a sly grin creep onto John's face.

Sitting up, he soon discovered his thoughts had triggered a certain reaction, causing the blood from his head to suddenly...rush out. His thyroid gland gave up, and Sherlock's hormones decided to become very horny. Testosterone rushing through him, along with whatever medication he had been given, ruined all chance for rational thinking, and the mind palace was under construction. Never before had Sherlock acted before thinking, but at this moment he gave up logic and got out of bed, making sure not to wake John.

John stirred, but did not wake when Sherlock shyly intertwined their fingers. Nor did he notice when Sherlock got on his knees and slowly placed both hands on his neck, reaching up to feel the blonde hair. He did, however, wake up at the precise moment Sherlock pressed his lips to John's own. Eyes wide open, John practically jumped out of his seat, and Sherlock hissed, flushing red from embarrassment.

A tantalizingly slow few seconds passed, and John stood up and grabbed the detective.

"Just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" He whispered, holding Sherlock by the neck.

"Please don't do anything irrational, I was only-"

"You do it like this."

John spun Sherlock around and slammed him against the wall, reaching up to grab the mass of silky hair before ferociously pressing their lips together, and with his free hand, reached behind Sherlock and grabbed his ass.

Sherlock, completely overtaken with a mixture of shock and lust, wrapped one endlessly long leg around John's hips, pulling him closer. He clawed at John's back and felt the broad shoulders hidden under an incredibly annoying jumper.

John had deepened the kiss by this point, lightly exploring Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and breathing heavily. He moved his hands down Sherlock's stomach, but got no where due to the idiotic hospital gown.

"John." "Sherlock."

Simultaneously saying that, they both knew the mutual need for the immediate removal of each others clothes.

John bluntly ripped off Sherlock's hospital gown, revealing the sculpted abs and absolutely god like waist he had always imagined. Sherlock was left in only briefs, letting John revel in the brilliance of his long, muscular legs.

Sherlock grew impatient, and grabbed at John's sweater, yanking it off before moving onto the jeans. Quickly unbuttoning the pants, he pulled them down, taking along with them John's underwear. John felt a sudden rush of air and looked down only to find Sherlock gaping at the size of his erection.

"Oh, shut up."

John grabbed Sherlock's arms and they fell back onto the bed, knocking over various equipment while kissing with such a bloodthirsty desire John could not resist but to break the kiss and bite down on Sherlock's neck, gradually making his way down.

On the other side of the hospital, a tired young intern woke with a start at the emergency button unknowingly pressed by Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

_John had Sherlock pinned down, licking his lips with a fervor not before expressed by the lurid doctor. He briefly pondered how he felt about this situation, after all, he usually felt comfortable only with those who had two X-chromosomes. Sherlock noticed the slight pause in the doctor's erratic behavior, which to the self-conscious detective, meant he must not have been responsive enough. To make up for his lacking involvement, he pushed John off and slammed him onto the bed. He lurched down, and before a disheveled John could protest, he wrapped his lissome lips around John's pulsing erection._

"Sher-Sherlock! Jeeeesus fuck...how the fuck can you do this better than my old girlfriends..."

John gasped out, slamming his confused head against the hospital's breaking bed. His nerves tingled with a new anticipation, and his muscles clenched with every lick Sherlock managed to give the throbbing ache. Sherlock cloyingly ran his hands down the soft skin of John's inner thigh, eliciting the hard shudder he longed to hear.

"You bastard, holy crap, you machine! Don't ever fucking stop...yes!"

John was estranged, his neck angling to calm the spasm revolving throughout his spine.

Sherlock took John whole, letting John thrust forward in his mouth, his dick slamming against Sherlock's throat.

"Isn't there...umph oh God...shouldn't you have a...gag reflex?"

Sherlock didn't have to answer. He let his teeth slowly graze over the pulsing scrotum, slyly licking the tip as he leaned back.

He pinpointed the time at exactly 3:47 when John orgasmed. He screamed and threw himself back, cum flying as his diaphoretic chest expanded, gleaming with sweat. The detective dragged himself up to John's panting mouth, kissing him lightly, before reaching behind him.

"Wha...what are you trying to get..." John whispered softly.

"I'm not done yet." Sherlock growled out, finally finding his item of choice, lube.

"Wait. What...what are you doing..."

"What does it look like I'm doing, John? Deduce this."

Sherlock spread his doctor's legs apart, entering him forcefully. The mere sound of John gasping in pain and clawing at the bedsheets brought Sherlock into a pause, just long enough for John to regain his soldier-like bearing and grab him from behind, forcing Sherlock back in. The wonderfully combined sensation of pain and pleasure hitting John from all angles, the revelling hardness slamming against his forsaken prostate just made him _beg_, made him _moan_ for _more_, the overwhelming urge to just pound Sherlock into the ground was taking control of the once impassive soldier and the _growling_, oh the _growling_-

"Oh, what DO we have HERE!"

An excited looking, young intern walked into the room, looking at the piled heap of sweaty men on the tired-looking hospital bed. Sherlock practically fell onto the ground and clambered to find his long lost clothes. John scrambled for the sheets, and pulled them over his shivering body.

"The name's Moriarty. _Pleaaaaasure_ to make your acquaintance!"


End file.
